The Greatest of These
by jbeanstalk
Summary: Here's what might happen if you were to meet a Tracy. Not a romance or self-insert. A tribute to the eldest son. Adult themes. TV Verse.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Based on the idea 'No man is an island' - even if he does live on one. Many thanks to those who have made suggestions for improvement. Those suggestions have now been included. All rights to these characters belong to Granada Ventures and I make no claim on them. _

**The Greatest of These...**

_Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side. Goldsmith._

"Is it me or is it suddenly hot in here?" Scott Tracy pulled at his bow tie and flexed the muscles in his abdomen under the cummerbund that seemed too tight around his waist. Virgil charitably reached across him to re-straighten his tie.

"Relax, will you? There's nothing to it," Virgil said.

Gordon stood at his opposite shoulder and smoothed creases from his suit for him. "He's right, big brother. Zilch. Absolutely nothing."

Scott was not convinced, had not been since his father had come up with this unusual idea. "If there's a call-out, John'll use the emergency vibration sequence. Okay. Remember the protocol we talked about. Someone'll be there to pick you up. None of us will be far away. It's all set out in the –ah‒ contract. Think of a plausible reason to get away if you're needed. Is that clear?"

Scott saw the smirk that passed between Virgil and Gordon and he believed he knew what they were thinking. Yes, he was worrying too much but when it came to their security, he took the responsibility on board.

Gordon pushed a glass of something light-coloured into his hand. "You could always fake a headache if you don't like the look of her."

Scott automatically went to drink what is in his hand then thought better of it. It wasn't alcohol but he had already downed four glasses of whatever it was that had been thrust on him by guests all evening. There was only so much fluid he could handle. He held the glass in the palm of his hand pretending to be interested in what was going on around him.

"A one in four chance, right? Any of us could be chosen."

"Right," his brothers agreed in unison.

Scott took in the crowded ballroom spread out before him, swishing with sequined gowns and black suits, his eye automatically scanning for those men fitted with an earpiece who served as Tracy Corp security. He felt more at ease when he picked them out. His two brothers beside him were also dressed in formal evening wear and, thanks to Grandma, were wearing a tie and cummerbund that matched the colour of their respective IR sashes. Scott thought his cobalt get up was far too vivid for his liking. His eyes almost glowed blue.

A quartet played classical numbers in an alcove. Balloons jostled in the dome atrium roof while below them distinguished guests jostled one another with their conversation and influence. His gaze lingered on the overhead glass, looking for the stars those balloons hid. These days he appreciated the vista their island provided. Plenty of clear horizon. It was too easy to feel edgy when he couldn't see the sky, as if seeing the vast expanse could give forewarning of trouble.

In front of him, his father and Alan pumped hands and circulated easily enough. Some of the people he knew. Politicians, business associates of Tracy Corporation, other high-profile people. Normally, he would have jumped at the chance to attend a social function, their solitary lifestyle not giving too many opportunities to do this. However, this time he was here as part of the menu, part of the entertainment.

"It's not every day one of us is sold at auction," Scott muttered. "Father must be trying to tell us something."

He had been uncomfortable with the idea since his father mentioned it. A fund-raiser for the International Benevolent Fund. His gaze was irresistibly drawn to the top hat on the podium across the room. Inside the silk lining were four Tracy names – the one lucky enough to be drawn would be sold to the highest bidder – for a dinner engagement at a place of the winner's choosing. He had no problem with the idea. Whatever he could do for those in need he would be the first to volunteer. But at the expense of one of their own? It seemed a little risky, a little more out in the open than what they were used to despite being reassured by his father that everything had been arranged in advance.

"In the name of charity," Gordon told him and then intoned in his father's deep voice. "But the greatest of these is..."

"I'm impressed by the way you guys are handling this," Scott said remembering how pleasant and attentive Gordon had been all evening.

"The poor women and children will thank you – er– us." Virgil gripped Scott by both shoulders. "Don't forget, one in four. It could be any one of us. Such a shame John couldn't but, hey, someone had to be on duty."

Scott grunted at this. John had been the only one to refuse. Outright. He'd turned whiter than chalk when his father explained the reasons behind the idea. Good for their character. Keep them grounded. Remind them how the other half lives. John figuratively chained himself to Thunderbird Five's console by refusing the change over with Alan at the end of the month. As Scott watched another round of giggling women head their way to give him and his brothers the once over, he wondered if he should have done the same thing in Thunderbird One.

"You know where charity begins," Gordon whispered across to him.

"Only for a few hours," Virgil said in his other ear.

Scott was still deciding how he felt about being bought. Charity already began at home. _Didn't he do enough for International Rescue?_ But if he could contribute, if someone benefited then he was willing. Despite his reservations, he strung together a few charitable thoughts and hoped his face mirrored them.

* * *

"So, who's Scott Tracy?" You can still remember the silence that follows your naive question. You could have heard a pin drop before the other staff members claw at each other in disbelief of your ignorance. Thankfully, your boss was not so easily swayed from the point.

"Read the contract. It's all in the fine print. Mr Tracy Senior has been very particular about the conditions. Memorise them. We don't want to offend, despite the money we'll pay out. Remember we're not giving charity, here, we're just trying to look like we are. You already know the outcome of the auction but try to act surprised and a _tiny_ bit delighted."

The only privilege you were allowed is a choice of venue – out of a list of two – and thirty seconds to decide. As you're not one to eat out, even go out for that matter, the choice meant nothing to you, so with a shrug and a point, you had chosen one. The theatre restaurant, where you can eat while you watch a show so you don't have to make small talk with a complete stranger.

Now, as you look through the crowd from the sidelines, you're nervous. In fact, you're terrified. You've done your research and understand who the Tracys are. You suppose you should feel privileged to be spending time with someone who is regarded as a celebrity. However, no matter how wealthy they are, you're worried about a group of men who are unattached and live together in a remote place even though they're old enough to leave home.

And you worry more about what you have in common with a former Top Gun and captain in the Air Force? Do you salute? How do you keep him interested for five minutes let alone five hours? Five hours is starting to sound like sacrifice not charity.

As you think back over the information you've gathered, you think the brother who's an engineer sounds more your style as he's a designer and builder of things like you are. Or the one who writes about the stars, they've always inspired you. You live near the sea, and you think you could hold your own talking engine compression with the youngest. But _planes_?

You made a model Spitfire, once. The last present from pa before he left and you can't even remember what happened to it. You especially hate planes since one nearly took your life by dropping out of the sky, reducing your fly-speck of an existence to jumping at shadows, and you only take to the clouds these days when your boss gets out the 'c' word. _Contract._

And above this, you despise the violence being in the armed forces suggests. Something you'd fled, with no desire whatsoever to return so you hope he's not going to regale you with graphic war stories because you are just not going to bloody-well listen. You're already recoiling from the possibilities.

Standing there in hired gear two sizes too small, you don't flatter yourself. You know you weren't selected for any great beauty or attractiveness, you really could be anyone, one of the thousands of anybodies who crowd the streets. You were selected because you're meek and co-operative, and you're not going to cause trouble for the company because you need this job.

_You can't believe the things you do for your bloody existence_.

Standing there trussed and corseted, you feel like the ugly big sister though you'll be expected to play the princess, and suddenly you feel rebellious, wondering how these rich people came to be so important and you're resentful at what you have to do for your own survival. You don't feel at all charitable. You feel inadequate. And you imagine all the clever remarks you could say, of how you could make this Scott Tracy work for the privilege of your company.

But despite the rebellious thoughts, the list of things you're not allowed to do or say rolls on in your head. No swearing, no flirting, no suggestive comments. Whatever you do, you know you must not offend and you won't because of what you are and that's what they want – a polite, pleasant impression so the company will have their contract renewed, so you will have your future assured.

Standing there you have serious doubts about being able to do it – until you catch a glimpse of who is supposed to be Scott Tracy – and then you know for sure you can't.

* * *

The crowd hushed as the compere waved his hand over the hat while a spotlight shone on the black rim. Along with the rest of the audience, Scott watched as the gloved hand reached in and drew out a piece of paper. His focus narrowed. He didn't need this. He willed it not to be him.

"Scott Tracy!"

Scott heard his name yet he didn't respond until he felt his brothers' hands on him.

"Awh, Scott! The better man!" His brothers were sympathetic, groaning loudly with disappointment, but they didn't waste any time pushing him forward. Scott turned up his glittering image to full and stepped into the spotlight to listen to a short history of his own career and achievements, with a few important gaps, and to watch with a sense of disbelief at the enthusiasm in the bidding for him.

The voice of auctioneer took over... "Now, what do I hear bid for this magnificent specimen of male..."

He didn't have to worry about a lack of interest. Rather, he was embarrassed at how quickly the amount climbed to an obscene figure. Six figure obscenities. When the bidding waned he was asked to parade, show his assets to better advantage by removing his coat. This he did, while answering personal questions put to him by the host. He played up to it, even as the women in the front threw him articles of intimate apparel. He was thankful they were well outbid by the corporate sponsors, the hammer finally falling along with a gasp from the crowd.

"Sold to the representative of Myown Industries..."

When it was done, he struggled to understand why anyone would spend so much money to spend five hours with him. Here, where the wait staff would be lucky to make fifteen bucks an hour, he could by being a Tracy generate a bank vault of money within minutes.

Thankfully, this was for charity. All for charity. And he wouldn't forget it.

* * *

When you stand next to Mr Tracy Junior, handing over your gigantic fake cheque to the compere, you realise just how big and broad he is. You are the mini beside the bus and an admirably proportioned bus at that. The way he stands there, boots slightly apart, arms not quite at his sides, his frame packing that suit with a word that escapes you for a moment. _Readiness. _That's it! You nearly blurt it out in your remembering it. One thing you know for sure. The tabloids are wrong. He doesn't spend his days lazing by the pool on their private tropical island. And looking at him frightens you to think what he does do. What position could possibly contain such energy, such confidence, such power?

He smiles at you, mainly with his mouth, his eyes not really taking you in as he seems to be taking in everything else around him. You can't blame him for his divided attention as he's being asked for his reaction by the Master of Ceremonies, which he gives easily enough. You don't remember what he says exactly but he looks perfectly at ease as if he's used to this.

You, on the other hand, are convinced you look like a red pillar-box, standing rigidly on stage with your mouth slightly ajar, heat creeping up your face to set it on fire. It's more than hating being up there in front of everyone, it's that your rehearsed composure has shattered. You've seen his picture on the computer and in the tabloids making him feel unusually familiar but nothing prepares you for what he looks like or how he presents himself in person.

You could never forget your former partner had been big... _and bad_.

You're being offered his arm and you have to take it. You know the drill by heart after they made you practise twenty-seven times and you rely on that to get you out of there through the crowd, being drawn along by the long striding man like a hankie caught in the margin of his pocket, your palm tucked into the fold of his elbow.

You're scared stiff of him. With what you're thinking, you're too afraid to look up in case somehow everyone else will know. Instead, you focus on the regular fall of his dress boots on the wood floor, the polished silver tip taking in the passing colour of the occasion to wink teasingly in your eye. You try to calculate how many months wages they'd have cost you, well aware that, as you are escorted through the hall, your expectations of rich recluses disintegrates into fragments that even a microscope couldn't locate.

* * *

Scott strode out into the street and straight for the dark limousine waiting for him out the front. Parker, in his usual chauffeur livery, held the back door open for him and his companion.

"All clear?"

"H'all quiet I believe, Mister Scott."

Scott couldn't help a quick glance around at the crowd on the footpath that were being kept at bay by security personnel. Flashes of light warned him he was being photographed. What he wouldn't give for the image shield in Thunderbird One, right about now. He helped his companion into the vehicle, one hand clasped in hers, another around her elbow, realising he had not taken in the tiny creature's name and determined to right that oversight immediately.

When his date settled into the far corner of the plush rear seats, he held out his hand.

"Scott. At your service, ma'am. Whatever I can do to make your evening enjoyable."

* * *

At first, you just look at the hand being offered you. You know you're being terribly rude staring at it like that, as you're stuffed back into the armrest like a cornered runaway. You've always been the watcher, the one whose outlook on life is derived from the sum of your observations from the sidelines.

And something doesn't add up.

Two of his fingernails are split, chopped to the quick to be more accurate. They're clean, ruthlessly clean like he's spent hours scrubbing at them, but worn down, black around the edges and something ground deep in the creases. Grease? He's injured himself somehow, two fingers swollen and bruised. You can only think maybe they've been crushed or caught in something.

His long, agile hand is far from the pale grubs you see that pass as fingers across the business table. He could do anything with those hands – micro surgeon, pianist – and you have no doubt he could, if he wanted to. Only you can see he doesn't.

"You don't have staff?" you hear yourself blurt, referring to the state of what he's offering you. Not quite the charming opening line you've practised but he doesn't seem bothered. He rolls his hand, flexes it and shrugs.

"I like to keep a hand in," he says evenly. He's looking more intently at you, weighing you, running you by his past experience, and you wonder if he realises he's said something amusing.

"Hopefully where it belongs," you return, annoyed your curiosity can be like a badly mannered hound sometimes.

His face transforms at this. A slick, sideways grin that works the dimples in his cheeks. "Not always but I get away with it."

You take his hand before he thinks to withdraw it, lightly, just to make sure he doesn't feel snubbed and because you can't resist being sympathetic when you see hurt. "Only just, by the looks," you say, still considering what he's done to it.

"Mmm," he agrees, still with that heart-stopper of a smirk. "This time." He tries to shrug it off but there's a tinge of seriousness filtering through. "Excuse me." He slides forward to talk to the driver, who he obviously knows, and leaves you wondering what the hell he does do.

* * *

As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Scott slid aside the partition between him and Parker in the front.

"Any idea of the co-ordinates?"

Parker nodded to the screen attached to the dashboard. "H'all logged. H'about thirty minutes, I would say. Traffic's light h'and the Domain tunnel's h'all clear. I took the liberty to stock the cupboard just in case you're perishin'. Your favoured drop."

"Great. You deserve a raise." Scott paused only a moment to consider how Parker knew to put what he liked in the refreshment compartment.

"Perhaps you could mention it when ᾽er Ladyship's in ᾽earing."

Scott patted the chauffeur's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do. Keep me up to speed." Just as he was about to return to his guest, he noticed Parker glance in the rear-view mirror.

"If you're interested, like."

Scott turned to look out the back window. "Paparazzi?"

"The green van what's three back. It was waitin' out the front. I ᾽eard ᾽em using the National Broadcastin' monicker but they don't normally top spin you lot. Unusual, if you h'ask me."

"Okay. You know what to do. Contact John. He'll work some magic with the traffic signals."

"You leave h'it to me, Mister Scott. You enjoy your –h'ah– night off."

"I'll do that." Scott scooted back to sit next to his dinner guest, leaving the partition open and allowing himself only one more look out the rear window. Parker was right. Considering what they normally handled, a load of photographers would be a cinch. He focused back on the task at hand, which he suspected may be more of a challenge than he'd first thought.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I'm neglecting you, I'm sorry. Drink?" Your host reaches to the cabinet built into back of the front seat, and selects a stubby-necked bottle and fist-filling glass, taking his selection neat. He waits for your answer with the turn of his head, his eyes focused on you.

You mangle the material of your dress with your fingers. You decide it's time to play your role, reminding yourself of the things you're not supposed to say, holding yourself within the bounds of your contract. "No, but thank you. You go ahead, don't let me stop you."

"Uh-huh. About twenty minutes before we touchdown at the Rivoli. If you change your mind..." He holds up the glass and toasts you. "Have we met? Somewhere before?"

You laugh, forgetting yourself, thinking how ludicrous that notion would be. Worlds apart in status, in social class, in _human_ class. You would remember.

He grimaces. "That sounded like a line, didn't it? A bad one, at that." He takes a swallow of his drink like he needs it. "The Rivoli. A theatre restaurant, I'm told. You're letting me off easy. I hope the tabloids haven't been too tough on us. We are a little more than 'The Bachelor Boys', they keep calling us."

You indicate out the back of the vehicle, mainly to keep him from asking what would naturally come next. "Company?"

He looks, quickly, the lights passing the window flicker across his face. "Nothing to be concerned about. We know how to handle it."

"You must have people following you all the time. In your position." You couldn't imagine what it would be like to be him but you do try.

"My position..." he repeats with a sigh. He pushes back into the seat almost in sync with the acceleration of the vehicle and spreads as males do, elbows and knees at wide angles. "I'm not sure I deserve to be in this position."

"No, of course," you say gently. "It's nothing. Really."

He has a bemused expression as he gazes across at you. "This is all my father's doing. He's the great achiever. I don't have anything to boast about." He reaches for his top button and pulls at it. "I hope you don't mind."

You immediately recall his military decorations but dare not mention those. It's the last subject you want to bring up. "Not used to business shirts? You seemed used to the spotlight."

"Not ones this tight." He stretches his neck. "Tonight? It's all in the training."

You hadn't thought about being a celebrity quite in those terms. You had been trained to answer yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir – but him? He seemed too, too... "You don't sound like you resent all this."

"My father's the most amazing man on the planet. Nothing to resent."

Organising his son's evening, maybe even his life? And he doesn't mind? He means it, you can tell. Your male parent just ceased to exist one day. Walked out and walked away. After that anyone else who wanted took control and you didn't always want.

"Well, Mr Tracy," you say briskly. "You'll find your father has been extremely thorough in considering your needs. I have been briefed and schooled in what you like and what you don't, the things I may discuss and the things I mustn't. You can relax completely, your amazing father has thought of everything."

You didn't think you said it sharply. You thought you said it with a certain restrained grace to reassure him but he looks at you as if he's mentally blinking. It's only there for a second, a flash of uncertainty, and he changes focus to the glass he's holding.

"You mean my brothers and I," he says as if he's correcting you.

"Actually, I do mean–"

You don't finish. The car comes to a sudden stop then makes a sharp turn to the left against the traffic. His arm flashes across you to stop you from being propelled forward. You have no choice but to make contact with the material of his suit.

"Hold on," he says in this calm voice that solidifies any casualness he had before.

You don't know why but suddenly you're back in the plane that nearly took your life. The sudden tilt of the damaged craft, the screams of the injured and above it all that damn calm voice.

"Hold on."

What you hear with your ears is so uncannily close to what you hear in your head, so almost like the voice that has stayed with you when there is nothing left, you are bewildered. The car dodges and weaves, and you're obliged to seek some stability from your companion.

"Hold on," he says.

So you do. In your mind, at least.

* * *

"Parker?" Scott leaned forward to ask the obvious question, making sure he didn't abandon his guest completely.

"H'ah, just takin' the scenic route. Shouldn't be but h'a few minutes longer."

As the big limousine sped through traffic, Scott had to brace against whatever structure was nearest to maintain both his and his companion's equilibrium. He admired how easily Parker handled the unwieldy vehicle, and he glanced behind to the green van being equally nimble among the cars.

"Proving determined?"

"You could say that," came the upbeat reply. "Stickier than cook's date puddin'. But this old dog's got h'a few tricks..."

Parker swung the steering wheel to make the tyres squeal around one corner, did the opposite lock to swing the rear and bumped them into a cobbled lane. He cut the headlights as he coasted to a stop well within the shadows of a back-street alley. Scott watched out the back until the van roared past them on the main thoroughfare. He chuckled. Parker spoke into his headset. What was being said didn't carry to the back but Scott knew Parker would be communicating with John. When Parker finished, it was Scott's turn.

"Tell me something. Do you remember who asked you to stock the drinks?"

"'Course I remember. I remember it h'as plain h'as day. Somethin' not to your likin' back there?"

"All good. I want to know who told you."

Parker hesitated. "Well, h'under normal circumstances, Mister Scott, I'd be 'appy to oblige but h'as you could say these h'ain't ordinary like, if you follow my drift, then my lips h'are sealed."

Scott was perplexed but not completely surprised. "Because you're driving me and not Lady Penelope?"

"Er – well, what I mean to say is, I'm h'a member of the Chauffeurs Guild. I 'ave h'a reputation to h'upkeep." Parker looked in the mirror and reversed the vehicle back out into the traffic.

"I'm surprised they let you in," Scott murmured, following where Parker was going as he looked out the back window. "Given your colourful background."

Parker waited for the traffic to subside then swung the big car into the traffic lane that would take them back in the direction they had been travelling, earlier.

"It's h'all h'about keeping up h'appearances. Where would we drivers be if we blab everybody's business h'about the place?"

Scott chuckled. "Okay, you want to play hard ball. Here's the play. Whatever you're paid tonight, I'll double it. If you accept, that technically makes me your employer and you are, therefore, bound to look after my interests. Any bonds of confidentiality pass to me. Right?"

This time, Parker didn't hesitate. "Double, you say? If you put h'it like that... Mister Virgil was very particular in his instructions. I believe I carried 'em out to the let'er."

* * *

"You can open your eyes," Mr Tracy whispers in your ear. "Parker outfoxed them. There's nothing to be worried about."

You're not worried, you're used to the idea of being pursued. Going into a passive state is something you do when you get into situations where you can't escape. It may seem like shutting down. It's more like waiting for the stress to pass. A form of acceptance you practise.

You think then maybe you could relate something to the life of a celebrity, always hiding to protect a notion of privacy. You can only hope he doesn't suffer the same consequences you do when you get caught by what you're running from.

You open your eyes to find the blue ones looking at you. You say, "You didn't know you were going to be chosen at the auction?"

He's leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and he looks down at his glass to roll it in his hands. "Looks like I'm the last."

You sense an opportunity, an opportunity to end this charade right now. "That's a bit inconsiderate, isn't it? To be set up like that?" You sound very sympathetic but, instead of him being angry as you expect, he's the opposite.

He laughs.

A deep laugh that reverberates around the interior of the limousine and into your memory. It must be a bad night for triggers, you decide. There it is, again. That downed craft and you inside it. The night you started running for real and haven't stopped.

You're familiar with the flashes of chaos in the treetops then that slow sway over darkness. Your body has memorised the beat of the rain, the blistering cold, the banshee shriek in the wind. Everyone tells you how lucky you and the other eleven survivors are to be on the plane because of who you have been rescued by. But you reject that idea. Anyone who has been in that situation would see no good side to it. You do remember there were three of them, working to stop the plane from sliding off a cliff, you find out later. Anyway, you don't remember the faces, only the terror. The terror and the blackness. And that command to "Hold on".

You've been doing it ever since.

Your host nudges you ever-so gently on the arm, like bumping the mouse when the computer has gone to screen saver. "Okay in there?"

You nod, quickly. You search his face for some reason why his voice might be affecting you, a hint of recognition, an answering cord somewhere within you but, when it doesn't come, you finally dismiss the whole thing as nothing more than your high state of anxiety.

"Uh-huh," he says, sounding like he doesn't believe your assurances. "Thought I'd lost you there for a second."

You start to feel hemmed in. He's actually taking notice of you, thinking about you, you can see it. You had convinced yourself that wealthy, accomplished, decorated kind of people would only think about themselves or people like them, and not be aware of the lesser mortals around them.

"Mr Tracy. It doesn't sound very nice to be tricked like that. I don't think I would like it. If you don't want... if you don't want to continue with this, I'll...I'll...my company will understand."

He slides back next to you and drapes an arm across the back of the seat on the far side to you. "Actually, I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast. But if there's some other place, someone else you'd rather be with..." He waves one of his injured fingers to indicate the band on the ring finger of your left hand.

You instinctively hide the ring among the material of your dress. It's not even a wedding ring. "No. No. Not at all. That doesn't mean anything...I mean, it doesn't mean what you think it means. I'm single."

His eyebrows rise a fraction. "Curious."

"It's only for protection. Nothing else."

"Protection..." he repeats and he leaves a gap for you to fill.

"You don't want to know, believe me."

Mr Tracy rests the back of his head against the headrest. "What has your company just paid for my time? One point two million." He angles those thick eyebrows of his as if it's another thing he doesn't believe.

"I'm supposed to be entertaining you."

"Not the way the contract was read to me. I do have a good set of ears."

He sounds genuinely concerned but there is no way you're going to spill your personal stuff to a stranger, and certainly not to one of his standing. You notice the car has joined a smooth flow of traffic down into the Domain tunnel. Next exit, the city and the theatre restaurant. No backing out now, you're committed, and you urge yourself to get with the program.

"Let's just say I used to have a friend. He was...a very good friend. He was a war correspondent but it seems his work...changed him...somehow." You're lost for a moment in exactly what way he's affected. "End of story."

"Not an improvement, I take it."

You agree. "Now, I'm not sure...about anyone."

He's considering his glass again, takes a sip and there's a delay before he swallows. You watch the liquid travel down his throat. "War has its effects. I was in the Air Force but I guess you know that."

You tense up. Here it comes! The dreaded war stories. You instantly regret mentioning the topic. You nod, anyway, acknowledging his willingness to engage on your level and your resignation in having to listen to those stories if it comes to that.

"Was in the USAF," he continues, a double emphasis on the word 'was'. "I resigned my commission. Best decision I ever made."

His admission surprises you. "Why?"

He lets out that full grin, which works every muscle in his face. "Because I found something I want to do more."

Before you can think or ask what would be better than medals for valour and bravery, both of you are distracted by a sharp movement up the front.

"Cor blimey!" you hear the driver exclaim. "Not h'again."

* * *

Scott immediately shifted so he could study the traffic out the back. He saw the rows of lights in the road tunnel flicking rhythmically across the body of the green van. The traffic was travelling at a steady speed, spread at regular intervals across three lanes and the van was making fast progress through them. The flashing speed indicators overhead read forty but Scott knew the van was travelling faster than that.

"Same one?"

"I believe so. So h'agrees Mister John."

In the jaundiced lighting of the tunnel it was difficult to tell the true colour of a vehicle, and Scott strained to see the driver. The driver appeared alone up front, a blond clump and a square block of face above a large frame hunched over the wheel. The van was close enough for Scott to recognise the NTBS logo along the side.

"Can you get Ned Cook to call them off?"

"It's h'already been tried. H'apparently they're not h'answering their communication devices, which you'll 'ave to h'agree is h'a mite strange." Parker tapped a few keys on his laptop console and a camera angled down the side of the vehicle to show him where the van was in relation to the limo.

"How many in the truck?"

"Four, h'is the lastest count, Mister Scott."

"I see the driver. No-one else. Anything else you're not telling me?"

Parker glanced in the small mirror that allowed him to see into the back. "Just that h'another vehicle 'as been commandeered. Mister Virgil's not far be'ind. H'about three minutes, I would say."

"Okay. Don't let that guy box you in. Anything else you got stocked back here?"

Parker reached for a lever, flipped it up and another panel slid out from the rear of the front seat. A compact .45 and three boxes of ammunition were neatly stowed in a teak box.

Scott snatched up the automatic. "You'll get that raise, yet."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Your eyes widen when Mr Tracy picks up the handgun. You don't say anything as he holds the gun down near the floor, presumably so you can't see it as he does something to it, then he slides it under his thigh on the seat. He pulls your seat belt across you and fastens it with a decisive click. He yanks it tight. Very tight.

"Whatever happens, stay with me or Parker. No need to be alarmed," he tells you, despite the distinct furrow between his eyebrows.

If he means to be reassuring, he fails. You discover the very voice which commands assurance can also command fear. The very thing that offers a lifeline has the same potential to withdraw it. You knew this was going to be sacrifice and not charity.

"This is necessary?" you say, looking first down at yourself and at the belt across you, not sure whether to watch him or the van that is gaining, which you can determine by the angle of your host's head as he's keeping an eye on its progress.

"I don't apologise for being prepared," he says in your ear. "You'll have to forgive me for being a little paranoid. It goes with the territory."

You feel the car slow and you can see it's not entirely due to the traffic ahead. You think the driver is allowing the van to catch up. Then Mr Tracy begins a countdown from five.

"Clear behind." He raises the volume of his voice so the chauffeur can hear.

When you see the snub end of a vehicle float up beside you, you try to slink down in the seat. The belt stops you and you are also aware that he has hold of you. You're not sure why. There's nowhere for you to go except inward. So that's where you go.

"S'okay. Steady. S'okay. That's the way." By his focus you can tell he's not talking to you but the van outside. When his countdown gets to zero, he yells, "_Go_!"

The chauffeur slams on the brakes. Then the limo makes a swift change across two lanes to rudely insert between two cars. There's some close jostling and blasts from car horns but you can see while the traffic stays static, you're now safely cocooned by other cars where the van can't get near.

Mr Tracy watches forward.

The van travels on. At speed. Too much speed. The traffic ahead slows as it reaches a long sweeping curve to the left, which you estimate to be the mid-point of the tunnel and therefore the deepest section under the river. The driver of the van doesn't seem to notice. The vehicle wanders in its lane before it runs up the back of a red sedan while it is still moving. The van veers, the red sedan turns and hits a white four-wheel drive in the next lane.

You watch in horror. There's a domino effect. With the soundproofing of the vehicle, the scene outside seems so remotely surreal, like watching an old re-run on television. Cars cannon, ricochet, collide into each other, the van in the thick of it. One little yellow commuter is hit by a semi-trailer and goes under the entire rig.

Rows of red brake lights blare the danger as drivers struggle to avoid the pile-up and slither to a stop.

"Damn," Mr Tracy says beside you.

Then your world changes as a fireball engulfs everything beyond the windscreen.

* * *

Scott pulled his companion to the side and waited, shielding her from possible injury. Nothing hit the car except the shock wave of the explosion and Scott was relieved the flash of flame dispersed quickly. Scott lifted his head higher to see what had happened.

"Parker?"

Parker pulled himself up from the dash well, straightening his uniform after a hasty dive onto the floor. "Mister John's h'already picking up the h'emergency calls. 'E wants to know what's 'appening, though I 'ave to say reception is patchy in 'ere."

"Switch to the wrist-coms. If Virgil's made it in, John can relay the signal through him." Scott checked with his passenger, found she was dazed but okay. When Parker had established a link to Thunderbird Five on his watch without making any reference to the secret space station, Scott gave John a running commentary.

"Yeah, well. Multi-vehicle collision. At least nine cars and one semi involved. Upwards of a dozen casualties. I would think at least one fatality. Single explosion. No fire from what I can see. Deluge sprinklers are operating so they've extinguished it. Overhead exhaust system is handling the smoke. We're not hurt. I'll see what I can do as soon as conditions improve. Okay? John get that? Where's Virg? Did he make it in before the tunnel closed?"

"FA- h'ah - roger on Mister John receivin'," Parker said. "Estimated time of h'arrival of h'emergency crews eight minutes. Mister Virgil's h'about h'a mile be'ind us. 'E's h'already 'it the tarmac, so h'as to speak. Five point two minutes, 'e's saying."

"Tell him he's slowing down. Okay, let's move it. The smoke's clearing. Parker, I want you to make sure all engine ignitions are off and that people find the emergency exits. There should be emergency stairwells somewhere. Failing that, get them to walk out through the tunnel, if they can. No spectators, no exceptions." Scott focused beside him. "Ma'am, if you'd go with Parker, he'll take you to safety."

Parker reached down under the front seat, pulled out a sizeable green box with a white cross on it and passed it back across the seat to Scott. It had 'first-aid' written on it. "Mister Virgil says it's h'an obstacle course back there. Mister Gordon h'and h'Alan won't do much bet'er."

"Excuses, excuses," Scott muttered lightly. He undid his seat belt and prepared to jump out of the vehicle, only to be stopped by pressure on his arm.

"Mr Tracy...maybe, I can help."

"You have medical training?"

"Maybe I could hold things. Be an extra pair of hands."

Scott drew in a breath to give himself time to think. "You might see things you wish you didn't."

"It's too late for that. I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

He delved into the first-aid kit and snapped on a pair of disposable glove while he took another moment to consider her. "Ye-ah, I believe you would. Only if you contract to do _exactly_ what I tell you. Your word. No argument. I'll come down hard if you don't. And if you can't handle the scene, you tell me. Okay? Agreed?"

She nodded. "My word."

"Against my better judgment but keep up. Please." Scott hugged the first-aid kit and took off in the direction of the smouldering pile of vehicles.

* * *

You're back in that plane. Where you believe you belong. Maybe you'll get the outcome right this time. Maybe it's selfish of you to put yourself forward. Your doctor has warned you that any issue you fail to deal with the first time around will rattle around in your psyche until something similar happens to take you through it again.

People almost run over you without seeing you. The air is full of choke and smart and haze. You cover your face to ward off that indescribable stench of barbequed rubber and bubbled tar, like your host who is now your guide does. The public address system adds a hypnotic spin by repeatedly telling motorists to turn off their engines and evacuate their cars. The sprinklers have slowed to a heavy run. You think the water makes tragedy look full of edges and glint.

Everything pulls off into the distance, like you are looking through a keyhole. You're not really there. You're aware of what your eyes are telling you but your ears are tuned only to that voice that took you through before. You follow it like the smoke that's being drawn into the roof vents only because you want so badly to believe it is your lifeline and not anything else.

You keep up. You'll go crazy if you don't.

Mr Tracy sets a cracking pace, and within minutes it's obvious he's a thorough professional. There's no hesitation, no guesswork. The woman in the white four-wheel drive. An older couple in the red sedan. Three young people in a coupé. The distraught driver of the semi-trailer. The list goes on... Everything is done with calm precision and logical calculation. It takes him only a few seconds to make an assessment of each of the injured. A pointed question, a quick look. A bandage here, a word there.

After the first vehicle, he has you carrying the box, passing him gauzes, directing the walking wounded to Parker, keeping a check on those who he orders to stay in their cars. Even when you go to take off your high-heels so you can move faster, he forbids it, telling you something is better on your feet than nothing.

You notice he has the right amount of firmness and empathy. Enough strength to command compliance, enough compassion to engender confidence. He's thoughtful enough to turn your head away from where what remains of the little yellow car smokes under the wheels of the big rig's trailer. The truck's load has taken the brunt of the blast and the damage is confined to that quarter, saving the surrounding vehicles from anything other than a major scorching of their paint work.

"It's not worth it," he tells you. "To see it. Don't look." He doesn't go near. The outcome is obvious for one unsuspecting motorist.

His focus is complete, even when he runs out of dressings and asks you what you're wearing under your dress. Still thinking of yourself, you hesitate to tell him.

"Cotton? Anything cotton?" he wants to know.

When you reluctantly show you're wearing an old cotton half-slip he almost pulls it off you in order to make a pressure bandage. Next, he takes to your dress with scissors and cuts a slab for a sling. You see his injured fingers are bleeding under his gloves but he makes no reference to them or gives any sign he notices. You're learning fast to anticipate what he needs and he's watching you because, as you often do, you don't say a word and that seems to bother him.

Apart from watching you, he's keeping an eye on the green van and also out for his brothers, glancing often at his watch. There is no question this is what he does all the time. From your Internet searches, you can't remember any reference to him being a member of an emergency service. Given how the media goad these men about their isolated existence, why is this aspect of his life not known? Aren't these male firemen and paramedic hero types revered? And if he's waiting for help from his brothers, does this mean they have those skills, too? From what you have overheard in the car, they definitely work as a team. So, why doesn't anyone know what they do?

Then he says something that brings you out of your reverie.

"Good idea of mine to bring you along," he says with one of those gut-busting smirks. "You're doing a great job."

You nearly drop it then and there. Praise? You're not used to praise. You can only blink at him in shock.

He shakes his head. "But, gee, I don't know...you sure keep me guessing. Hold it together for a few more minutes, okay? We're almost done here. The cavalry should arrive any second." He indicates the van. "Now. This one's mine. I want you clear of it. No matter what. Agreed? Stay with the woman in the SUV. The one with possible abdominal injuries."

You're not sure why you agree so readily, particularly as that voice is leaving you. Maybe because you're lost in the image of the calm, confident emergency worker but when he turns to walk towards the van and reaches behind him for what you realise is the handgun in the rear of his waistband, he becomes that complete stranger again.

* * *

Since the accident, Scott had kept a close eye on the activity around the van. The driver was slumped over the wheel and Scott calculated the guy hadn't moved since he first looked. John had said the van had four occupants. Where were the others? His instincts were telling him something wasn't right with the set-up. It seemed logical to wait for the emergency crews. They would be here any tick of the clock. As soon as the forward section of tunnel was clear the emergency crews would race down the cleared freeway. But then – looking at the driver slumped over the wheel. How badly was the man hurt? And what about the others he couldn't see?

The van had ended up on its own, smashed sideways against the concrete barrier of the inner shoulder of the roadway that doubled as a safe passage for motorists in a situation like this. There was considerable panel and front-end damage, a spider web of cracks across the windscreen. It was bad enough to cause serious injuries, particularly as a van doesn't have the same crash protection that is built into sedans. From where he stood, Scott couldn't see a seat belt or an air bag.

Scott slid out his gun and crept up the rear of the vehicle at an angle so he could watch the driver in the side mirror. The driver didn't move. There were a number of windows in the back but they were tinted. He stopped to listen for movement inside the van. Nothing.

"Driver in the truck. In the green van," he called. "Can you hear me?"

There was no response from the front but the back immediately became alive with a chorus of pleas for help. Someone tapped metal on metal. Another pounded on the side panel with their fist. He identified three different voices.

"We can't get out! We're trapped! Help us! Please!"

Scott pulled open the side door, his body close to the moving panel, the aim of his pistol indicating he anticipated a trap. He saw a tangle of twisted bodies. Then, keeping his gun out of sight, he ducked his head in to see what else was inside.

All clear.

"Mr Tracy? Oh, Mr Tracy! Thank goodness. You came for us. Can you help us? This equipment. It's all come forward and over us."

There were three of the photographers, all middle-aged, from the charity event. One was pinned by their station's mobile satellite dish. The dish ran on runners along the floor of the vehicle and had torn away from its mounting, toppling forward to trap them all, one more seriously than the other two. The others were surrounded by metal boxes that most likely housed their cameras and scaffold equipment. Scott predicted there would be serious impact injuries.

Scott slipped the gun back into his waistband. "Take it easy, fellas. Help's not far away." He leaned in to see what he could do. They were all alert, and, after checking their situation, Scott decided it was better to keep his intervention verbal. "That dish looks heavy. We'll wait for the rescue crews. They'll be here any minute."

He felt relieved at that point. The accident could have been a lot worse. He ran through the list of injuries he kept prioritised in his mind. Save for the one fatality and two other possibly more serious, the survivors didn't look too bad. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, seat belt abrasions. His most immediate concern was the older couple with neck injuries in the red sedan, and woman in the SUV with significant rebound tenderness in her stomach, which may not be entirely due to the accident.

He had only done the minimum in a rapid triage to determine who was the most injured. In some cases he had applied bandages or other paraphernalia to reassure the injured that something had been done to make them more comfortable while they waited. He glanced at the structure overhead. Water still ran from the overhead sprinklers and he wasn't crazy about the idea he was standing beneath a very large river. Virgil's opinion on the integrity of the tunnel structure after a blast like this would have been reassuring.

He checked his watch. Eight minutes had passed since the accident.

"So, what's with you guys?" Scott asked the trapped men. "You don't normally ride with the gear."

"It wasn't us, Mr Tracy, honest," the one closest to him said. "You know we wouldn't chase you like that."

"It was him. Up front," another said. "He forced us. Freelance buzzard, he is. Not one of us."

"Crazy. Crazy. He made us get in here. Said he'd blow us up if we didn't. We had no choice, honest, honest."

"Blow up?" Scott felt his pulse jolted by the possibility. "Any equipment you don't recognise?" He knelt to take a quick look under the vehicle.

The journalists looked in alarm at each other but eventually indicated the negative. "Well, we're still here, guv, even after this lot and it weren't no picnic."

Scott recognised the potential for panic. "Okay, okay, keep it steady. As you said, we're all still here. It's likely he's bluffing. Is he armed? Do you know who he is?"

"Some strange joe, just in from I forget where. Freelance paparazzo, not one of us, is he lads? Went barmy when word filtered through who was representing MyOwn. Too keen, too bloomin' mad keen, is what I reckon."

"Leave him to me," Scott said. "I'll check him out."

"Better you than us. Thanks, Mr Tracy. If there's anything we can do..."

"Yeah," Scott came back. "No pictures."

There was a collective groan.

"Fellas! Not at my best, here." Scott waved his hands in front of his soiled suit. "What about my public image?"

After telling them to call him if anyone felt suddenly worse, he turned his attention to the front. There were two reasons why he approached the cab with less caution than he had before. Firstly, if the reports from the journalists were true, the incident didn't seem related to his family. MyOwn Industries, they'd said. Perhaps someone with something against the company who had made top bid at the charity auction. And secondly, he could finally hear the sirens and emergency horns echoing towards him down the empty lanes in front of the accident site. He felt the burden of responsibility lighten.

As he moved to the cab, Scott was still wary even though he hadn't drawn his weapon. He could see the face of the driver, which was resting on the wheel and turned in his direction. One arm was draped along the dash and a line of blood seeped from his nose.

"Driver? If you can hear me, can you open your eyes or raise your hand for me?"

There was no response.

Scott opened the door, believing the man to be unconscious. He was mistaken. The man's eyes slid open and Scott found he was staring straight into the snub barrel of a tiny handgun.

"The old 'gun in the lap trick'," Scott quipped, even as his pulse rate skyrocketed to beat against his temples. "Take it easy, pal. Real easy."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

You hear the sirens. The drama's over!

And just in time. The woman in the SUV is becoming agitated and you don't know what to do. You want to call Mr Tracy but you see he's busy at the van and you decide she can wait until help arrives. He has put away his gun and becomes the emergency worker again, the one who has given you praise, as if your input is important. You nearly make the mistake of calling him Scott. It slides off your tongue without warning. Like a cup you secretly hold in a royal household, a forbidden privilege, a stolen insight.

You're dazzled by a sense of relief until you see Scott's reaction when he's at the front of the van.

As Scott opens the door, he drops the first-aid kit. Then he raises his hands to the back of his head. The driver, who you thought was out of it, pushes Scott backwards and jumps out of the van to follow, taking a fistful of Scott's shirt and menacing his face with a gun. Scott is bundled out into the centre of the roadway in full view of the rescue personnel, to be silhouetted starkly in the brilliance of the lights from the massive red fire trucks.

No-one can fail to see what is happening.

The appliances that approach screech to a halt, headlights dim and the crews scramble for cover behind their vehicles. As if to make sure everyone understands what's going on, the gunman parades his captive up and across the roadway.

He shoots over the top of Scott's head into the roof of the tunnel and all living things disappear – all except you.

"I want my girl!" the man yells to no-one and to everyone. "My girlfriend! Here! Now!"

As the gunman turns in your direction, your lifeblood literally stops. Your legs go from under you.

* * *

With his hands on his head, Scott was trying to be philosophical. He grimaced into the strong lights. Thirty feet. They were less than thirty feet away. Numerous fire tankers, a squad of police cars and a fleet of ambulances. All ready to deal with the injured.

Not too far away.

He knew this guy meant business. The way the firearm was jammed into his jaw, the way he was being manhandled, his hearing still ringing from the shots. He tried to moisten his lips, the inside of his mouth so dry he wanted to gag.

He had one consolation. If the guy pulled the trigger now, he wouldn't know about it.

"I want the woman you were with," the gunman said in his ear. "Where is she?"

Before Scott could reply, he was pulled back towards the damaged cars as the gunman put distance between him and the emergency services. Scott could hear the amplified talk from the service radios, no doubt the incident mentality shifting rapidly from traffic accident to hostage situation.

"Show me where she is."

"Look, fella," Scott said, struggling to keep his balance while he was being shoved about by the base of his neck. "Whatever the problem, it can be worked out."

"She quits running off on me. That's how it'll be worked out."

"She won't be impressed if you're packing a firearm. Look, this won't help. Put down the weapon and we can talk."

The guy was as tall as he was, even taller, all muscle and heat. Scott saw it wasn't going to be easy to get away but he hadn't gotten out of similar scrapes by being dismayed by the odds. His mind dug for possibilities.

"You're going to help," the gunman told him. "See, it's her or it's you. She comes back to me or I kill you. When she went, she took everything and I don't reckon that's fair. She owes me. _Someone_ owes me." The gunman raised his head and shouted, "Did you hear that GIRLFRIEND? It's him or it's you. Don't take too long to decide, honey. You know what my patience is like." The gunman focused back on Scott. "Where is she, million-dollar man?"

"What makes you think I know?"

The man sniggered. "I don't know what that woman is thinkin'. Mixing it with hobnobs the likes of you. Who does she think she is? Now, don't you get cute with me. I saw you leave that charity do for trumped-up arses with her. All cosy-like, she totin' on your arm. I don't know what she is thinkin' but she belongs to me. Got it?"

Someone using a loudhailer ordered the gunman to throw down his weapon but he ignored them.

The gunman gave Scott a shake. "Come on, do your stuff. You're gunna find her for me. You know, I bet you haven't done an honest day's work in your life. Well, I'm changin' all that. Tell me and you'll live to start tomorrow."

"I don't know where she is," Scott lied. He knew she was behind the SUV and he hoped to hell she stayed there. "I told her to clear out when I went to the truck. She'd be half-way to—"

The gunman cuffed him hard across the side of the head. "Now, you don't wanna do that. I can get rough, see, you just ask her, she'll tell you. I don't reckon you'd be used to gettin' your pampered stuff all worked over. Let's start this way. Maybe I can put a few people out of their misery for them."

"I told her _not_ to come near me." Scott spoke louder than he needed, not actually talking to his captor. "Under _any_ circumstances. She's not here. You'll never find her."

"Save it, buster. To live, all you have to do is one thing. I'll do the rest."

Scott was pulled towards the SUV and he resisted. Under no circumstances would he let the man near that vehicle. He knew what would happen if the gunman found either the woman or any of the injured. He thought rapidly. He had an ace. One vital piece of the man's troubled history. And he still had the gun.

"Okay, okay. You win," Scott said. "She's over this way. I told her to stay over here." And he indicated away from the four-wheel drive and towards the burnt-out shell of the little yellow commuter.

* * *

It's him or it's you.

You hear what your friend who is now your enemy says. And you believe him. The night you got on that doomed aeroplane, he made it perfectly clear he would stop you. Maybe he had, by willing that plane down.

Him or you.

You or Scott.

You're lying flat on the pavement and you struggle to regain the use of your body. You have to get up. You cannot let an innocent bystander take what is rightfully yours, even though if you do stand up now he will shoot you down like vermin. That's been his promise.

But you must accept it. There's nowhere else to run.

By the time you gather yourself to your knees, you're disturbed to see Scott has led your enemy over to the vehicle that exploded when the truck ran over it. You can barely stand to look. Scott has warned you not to...because of what is still behind the wheel.

* * *

"Somewhere here," Scott said artificially brightly, moving as close to the wreckage as his captor would allow. "I told her to stay here but, you know, she might have moved..."

Scott stole a glimpse at where the gunman was looking. Scott had the gun in his waistband. There was a foot or two distance between them. The only problem, his hands were in the air. He made an act of pointing. He took his hands off his head and out in front to see what the man's reaction would be. He knew it would be a risk.

The gunman yanked him to a stop, like a dog on a chain, and stared into the depths of the wreckage.

"Hey, what is this?"

* * *

In that instant, you know Scott Tracy understands about war.

He's reuniting your enemy with the images he sees in his dreams, reconnecting him to the haunting of his past. You can see what Scott means to do. Scott wants to distract him, to break his concentration. At this point, a normal person would be overwhelmed by the horror of the scene, be struck by the realisation it has been their own course of action that has brought about this travesty.

When he's not shaken, Scott leaves him without excuse. He has ceased to be rationally human and you rejoice there are so many witnesses. Violence has become a living entity and it's him.

It doesn't surprise you, then, when your enemy turns the gun on Scott and fires.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: The final chapter. Thanks so much for your reviews. They mean a lot._

**Chapter Five**

Scott felt the impact of the bullet.

It was more of a solid jolt than anything. He had turned to encourage the man's attention right into the seat of the commuter and the bullet hit him in the back just above the spread of the top of his left hip. He wasn't sure how badly. He calculated it was low enough and far enough to the side to have avoided anything major. He could live without a foot or two of colon. The fact he was still on his feet gave him reason to be optimistic.

He knew, however, there would only be a short refractory period before damaged tissue would protest, his nervous system would relay news of the damage to his brain and an internal shutdown would begin. Then he would be in trouble. They would all be in trouble if this maniac found who he was looking for.

It was now or never.

Scott erupted. He drove upwards, twisting and lashing out in fury at his assailant. He risked being shot again for his effort. He knew it. But he had to do something while he could.

The first punch landed exactly where he aimed. A spot just under the man's jaw. Between his airway and the artery that supplied blood to the brain, the impact designed to cause maximum damage.

The guy's head turned to the side.

The gunman seemed surprised by Scott's move and offered no resistance. Scott was too close for him to have missed when he fired, and he must have expected Scott to go down. The momentum of the punch nearly took Scott to his knees but he steadied to follow the first contact with a second. In the same position only on the opposite side.

The guy's head turned back the other way.

The gunman toppled. Like a log sawn off at the butt. The handgun clattered harmlessly to the ground beside him. Scott was confident the guy was unconscious before he hit the deck, and he almost fell on top of him as he bent to secure the weapon. He staggered to the side and rested most of his weight against the bonnet of the nearest car, waiting for the bedlam that would follow.

* * *

You swallow the cry that lodges in your throat.

You can't believe Scott's all right and you can't bring yourself to move from your terrified crouch, a second on the upward side of living again still too soon to push your luck. You can't believe that loser missed at such close range but you've never been so glad of it, still mortified he would fire on Scott like that. And you're equally shocked to understand that Scott has done it to protect you. You. Someone he hardly knows. You want to crawl away and hide at the realisation, overwhelmed by the knowledge that your twisted, meagre existence has risked the life of a stranger.

As you see emergency crews dash for the scene, you crawl under the SUV and curl up to sob your contrition to any deity who might be listening.

* * *

His brothers emerged from their various hiding places. Emergency services crews surged forward and within seconds the place was a swarm of urgent activity. Scott leaned his injured side against the mudguard panel, his left hand spread on the metal to take his weight.

Virgil was the first to him, to stare at him then at the gunman on the ground before he took the weapon from Scott's gun hand.

"Thank God," Virgil breathed and shook his head. "I thought...I thought..."

Virgil didn't put into words what he was thinking. He didn't have to. Scott understood what he meant, only Virgil didn't know how right he was. It's just that Scott wasn't prepared to admit it, yet. He needed to focus while the more needy were taken care of. Virgil stood with him, a hand on his shoulder while Gordon and Alan knelt beside the gunman. Then the police and paramedics took over.

"There's three badly injured over in the green truck..." Scott reeled off a list of injuries and directed the ambulance officers to the various cars, watching as crews rushed in the directions he'd indicated. Then Scott remembered his companion. _Damn it! He still didn't know her name._ He looked back to where he'd last seen her, moved to get a better look and regretted it.

"What's wrong?" Virgil asked.

"Gordo? Al? Where is she?" Scott pointed towards the vehicle he'd thought she'd been near. "She was at the SUV right up until that guy started shooting. Find her."

They agreed in unison.

"What kept you?" Scott whispered across to Virgil.

"It was chaos. People everywhere. The tunnel wasn't sealed as quickly as it could have been and the traffic built up. We were obliged to help people find the emergency exits. If I'd have known –"

"So, you knew, huh? The outcome of the auction."

For a split second, Virgil appeared the one in pain. "Look, please let me explain..."

As Scott stood there, deliberately distracting Virgil away from his own problems, he could feel the internal disintegration gather momentum. It started with a damp cold feeling down into his leg that congealed into an overwhelming heaviness across one side and up into his chest. Sweat beaded as breathing became just that little bit more difficult. There was the pain. He wouldn't be able to ignore the pain for much longer.

And the longer he left it, the stronger Virgil's reaction would be. He knew it. He knew what he was in for. Virgil was standing right next to him, for Pete's sake. _Oblivious._ His dark clothing was a perfect cover for the blood and whatever else that was seeping out of him.

Just so long as no-one was overlooked on his account. Then...and only then...would he...

* * *

The red-haired brother finds you under the SUV, at least the stricken shell of the former you, the one who has been pretending all these years and now knows there will be no more of that. What you believe about yourself and the world has been confirmed – except for one glaring anomaly.

A guy you hardly know just risked his life for you. _For the second time_.

Then you understand you believe a lie.

"Hey," the one you think is Gordon says to you. Quite upbeat, as if this is just another day. "It's okay. You're safe. It's over."

For you, it isn't. Maybe it never would be.

"It's my fault," you say.

When you do reply, he gets down flat on his stomach at your level, suit jacket in the dirt, orange cummerbund on the asphalt, and waits. Patiently. His chin is resting on his folded arms and he watches but without judgment. "You know, once I was so scared I couldn't face what I had to do. I had this major wreck, you see, and had to learn to walk again. I was so scared I wouldn't be able to walk, I couldn't let myself try." He shrugs then reaches out his hand. "It might not be so bad."

He understands about fear? What you do know is that nothing fits with these guys.

After your gut decides he's safe enough, you eventually reach out your hand. This time you choose to. No-one makes you.

You crawl out and he does his best to help, his arms wrapping around your shoulders until his blond brother runs up with a blanket to replace them. It's a good move because you're shaking but you don't think it's from the cold and you appreciate they seem to know what to do and what to say.

One thing is perfectly clear. They have done this before.

The hardest part will be to face Scott. You know what the fear is there. Owing someone so much, particularly a male. What will he expect from you? What could you possibly give in return? You're tangled in your own dilemmas until you notice the strained look on your rescuer's face. Your gaze drops to avoid seeing any condemnation of you in him and that's when you see the reason for his distress. What Scott's leaving on the car as he leans against it.

Your hands come to your face. "Oh. My..."

* * *

Scott thought he was doing reasonably well until she said those two words. It was the horror in her tone that made everyone within twenty feet look. At him.

"Scott," Gordon said, apparently seeing what she was seeing.

Scott risked a glance behind him. He looked in a kind of detached annoyance at his own blood smeared on the panel work. This would mean precious resources spent on his behalf, time out from rescues, his brothers covering for him, others being put at extra risk because he wasn't there.

It was the moving that did him in. "I think I need to—"

Virgil grabbed him before he collapsed, thankfully before he disgraced himself by showing complete weakness in front of a lady, in front of anyone for that matter.

"Down. Down. Come on. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

That dreaded reaction happened. Hands came at him from every direction and before he knew it he was being lowered to the ground, gasping drunkenly from the pain of being moved and the pressure Virgil applied to the small of his back. Definitely not the way he'd planned to end a charity event for the International Benevolent Fund.

* * *

You reach out to him along with everyone else as it's the best you can do but as always you're not needed. The one called Virgil is shouting orders that no-one dares disobey. Medical kits and personnel multiply while you remind yourself you are the cause of his suffering. He's paying for what you started.

You reel when you see his blood saturated clothing cut away, when you hear the anguish in his voice, when you glimpse the oozing wounds, one in his back, a bigger one in his side that the brunette brother reveals briefly when he removes his hand.

The red-haired one again has you in strong arms, trying unsuccessfully to smother the fire that is unleashed in you. You look again at the devastation around you, at the place where the person you have come to respect has fallen, where people you don't know are damaged and where you are spared.

All you can do is take a deep breath and shout, "_Why?_"

* * *

Why.

Despite what was being done to him while he was on the ground, Scott had heard her cry. So had everyone else who had been there. In some sense he saw it as an accusation. It was a question he asked himself many times during the short stay in hospital then transfer to the Tracy Island infirmary, and it's a question every member of the family asked him more than once, his upset father the most insistent on receiving a sane answer.

He wasn't arrogant enough to think she had directed the question specifically at him. He had come to understand she had a few more issues than that. But he did have time to contemplate what he did – and why. Not just that day but every day.

Virgil made sure he did.

He spent a lot of recovery time looking at his dominant hand, recalling the interest she'd shown in it. It was an integral part of their attitude, their logo. Giving a hand. His hand, that could just as easily take life now gave it and there was nothing more satisfying in his mind. Yep, he'd been lucky. He nearly lost but he'd gotten away with it one more time. One day he wouldn't, but until then it would still be one more time.

He chuckled when he thought of poor Virgil, stricken with guilt he had set Scott up. Virgil had confessed each of his brothers had paid an extra hefty sum to the IBF to have their names taken from the draw, in the belief Scott needed the time out more than they did.

All in the name of charity, of course.

Would it be too shallow to suggest he did what he did because he could? He had the means, the temperament, the physical and mental ability. That explanation didn't even satisfy him. He could do anything he wanted. He had forsaken a stellar career in the Air Force. He could be a top pilot, a high-flying businessman, an astronaut like his father had been. He could push any boundary he wanted, on this planet or any other. Doing something memorable in the public eye would bring him greater rewards. Fame, esteem – and, perhaps, spare him the consequences of his dangerous lifestyle. This way he would be forever defined by his father's success and live in relative obscurity. A chip and never the block.

He was content. He was.

It just had something to do with who and what he valued...

* * *

You are sitting by the window when the car pulls up out the front.

You've been sitting in the window of your apartment watching the street every day for a month, now, waiting for the landlord to evict you because you're no longer an asset to Myown Industries. You are now a social outcast.

But somehow, this time you think you'll survive it.

You have always been the watcher and you see the street in a different way. You hadn't noticed before how the leaves on the tree-lined street hang from the branches in elegant arches or how the light reflects in radiant colours from the puddles left by the street cleaners.

You're surprised you like what you see.

You don't recognise the vehicle that pulls to the kerb. You pray it's not another circus act from the press. Thankfully, they left you alone after the first few days, recognising your utter lack of media appeal. You've been watching, as you've always done, and in all this time you've not seen a vehicle like it. Being broad and bulky, it's not a vehicle your former friends would drive, and you're prepared even less for who gets out of it.

Scott Tracy.

You don't know which way to look. You automatically pull your dressing gown tighter across you and tuck those furry slippers with the cat faces stuck to them further under your chair. It's too late to pretend you're not home.

He's seen you.

You're torn between wanting to hide and wanting to study how he moves for those clues that have always allowed you to gauge the truth behind words. And you desperately want to know the truth. The official communique from Tracy Corp in the papers reads: _After his heroic ordeal in the Domain Tunnel, Scott Tracy, son of billionaire Jeff Tracy, is expected to make a full and rapid recovery_. You have it memorised. And there he is – standing on the footpath. Apparently recovered. He climbs a few stairs to the front door casually enough. And he's even dressed casually. Jacket, jeans, shirt not tucked in. The loose-fitting clothing gives you a start as you re-live the reason.

He leans on the ironwork and holds out a single violet towards you and the open window. The tiny offering is captured between his thumb and forefinger. You reach to accept it and acknowledge he has summed you up perfectly. You glance anxiously behind you, knowing you should invite him in but you're ashamed of the state of the place.

"S'kay," he says as if reading your mind. "I didn't come to intrude. Just to see how you're doing. And to give you an invite. I haven't had my dinner date, yet. I hope I didn't go through all that to miss out."

All the things you want to say to him if you ever get the chance, which you had seriously doubted, crowd into your mind. "I'm sorry, Mr Tracy...I truly am...if there's anything..."

He stops you with a tsk and the shake of his head. "How about 'Yes, _Scott_,I'd love to come'. At least so I can apologise for scaring you like that." He glances back towards the car. "Of course. It'll be different, this time. There'll be more than just me. Virgil, my brother, he won't let me out by myself." He chuckles at this. "After what they've been feeding me, I'm hanging out for the biggest t-bone, still kicking if that's the only way I can get it. Oh – it'll be more relaxed. We know a place. Discreet. And discreet I know you can do. No need to get too dolled up – though, I didn't get to tell you how lovely you looked the other night..."

You're still focused on him to fully take in what he's saying. "So – you're all right...then?"

He spreads his arms to show you then leans both elbows on the railing, the volume of his voice lowers. "I have a little surprise for my brothers so I need your help. Just a little payback for putting me in the other night." He raises his finger to his lips. "Our little secret."

You're working up to this. _Secrets_. "I know who you really are," you say. "What you do. It's your voice. I recognised your voice. It might concern you to know that."

It had come to you in your midnight rendezvous with the shadows, barricaded in the wardrobe to keep them at bay. You've put it all together. What all of them do – _really_. You're not sure what kind of reaction you expect but he doesn't hesitate.

"Why should it concern me?"

You nod. "I'm saying it might."

He looks away into the distance as if thinking about something else. "We've been aware the media has been annoying you. And the needs you have. You've had the opportunity to profit from the information you have but didn't. Should that tell me something? I eventually placed you. The Cessna 208 down over the Southern Alps. In my line of work, I always keep an eye on the quiet ones. I'm never sure what they're going to do. I recall you let everyone else go first, helped me, helped everyone stay calm. I appreciated what you did."

"That wasn't bravery," you say quickly in case he gets the wrong idea.

He arcs an eyebrow. "Like the other night?"

"That was...that was...being convinced I didn't deserve to live."

He shakes his head to negate that idea. "Well, we're both still here. It's up to you how you go from here." He holds up a finger. "Before I forget. I'm playing mailman." He reaches into his coat pocket and slides out an envelope.

"You're going to buy me off." The thought suddenly disappoints you. You had considered the idea. You had. You're ashamed to admit you did think it would be one way to solve your problems if you asked the Tracy family for money to keep you quiet.

A sly smile ignites the depths of blue that are looking at you. "Not exactly."

You take the envelope he offers, officially typed, the Tracy logo emblazoned across the top, and read the contents. "A job! You're offering me a job? After everything?" You're sure you leave your mouth open too long.

"Tracy Corp is offering you," he corrects. "I don't have a say in personnel matters, though I did make sure the right person knew about your design skills. Especially someone who doesn't argue, and who can walk through hell and back without saying a word. What I wouldn't give for a brother like that." He grins but you know he's joking. "Our gain, I'd think. You can call it payment – in kind."

You're stunned, staring at the letter through glazed lenses. "Th-ank you," you splutter, even forgetting to automatically add that it was the other way around – you owed him.

"I'm dying, here, not knowing if you'll accept my invitation," he says. The word 'dying' brings your head up, it having too many barbs attached to it for you not to react. You accept, in a rush, and he looks relieved. "Good. We had a bet on about what I'd have to do to convince you. Whether I'd have to get down on my knees. Beg, a little. Or maybe break in there, throw you over my shoulder and carry you off – though..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I understand why you wouldn't appreciate the second idea."

With a laugh, you agree you wouldn't.

"Seven o'clock," he says and is gone.

As you watch the vehicle drive away, you take in the rich fragrance of the violet you've been given. You study its tiny body, sailing like a kite above the slender stem, the sections of its head spread like unfurling wings. _Could that ever be you?_ You accept the invitation, not because you want to impress or because you didn't want to offend. This time you're not afraid of him, even of what you have lost. This time you've been shown something different. Something greater...

FIN


End file.
